


These Lights

by looks_a_scream



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chef! Spencer, M/M, Photographer! Brendon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looks_a_scream/pseuds/looks_a_scream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His own brilliantly blue eyes stare at him fiercely from the magazine cover. There's a dark blue background and bright yellow letters, shouting, "SPENCER SMITH: TOO HOT FOR THE KITCHEN" next to him. But that's really not what Spencer's looking at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Lights

It's not that Spencer doesn't like having his picture taken, it's just.  
  
Okay, no, that's pretty much exactly what it is.  
  
He's no stranger to photoshoots, at this point. After making his culinary debut four years ago -- 21 and barely out of school -- Spencer's done them all:  _Bon Appetit, Gourmet, Food & Wine_, basically any and every foodie magazine out there. The first round of articles was quickly followed by a second round when he opened his first restaurant on the Vegas strip. It proved an instant success, earning him four Michelin stars, and an absurd amount of attention from the culinary world. Then came the restaurant in New York, then London. There had been a brief discussion of Paris, and then Los Angeles, though Spencer opted not to overdo it. At that point, he'd only been 23; three world-class restaurants was good. Great.  
  
It wasn't until last year, when he did that article for  _Out_ , and the shoot for the cover with a handful of other influential gay celebrities for the Out 100, that his fame truly skyrocketed. Suddenly he had a brand new fanbase, people who probably didn't care as much about his cooking as they did about his long legs and shiny hair. Spencer Smith was Hot. Young boys -- and girls, even though by then he'd made it quite clear which he preferred -- began to fawn over him, flooding his PR Manager with fanmail and gifts. He wasn't just a talented chef anymore, now he was a Heartthrob.  
  
That's when he started getting calls to do shoots for magazines like  _Teen Beat_  and  _J-14_  and  _Pop Star_  or whatever the fuck the others were called. Those, he turned down, but it didn't stop them from drudging up outdated photos from events and galas and premieres he'd attended. It made his cheeks flame something fierce whenever he'd pass a newsstand and see his own, horribly candid face peering out at him from within all that hot pink. It had finally come to the point where he'd get followed by the paparazzi on his way to... well, anywhere, and it just made no fucking sense!   
  
"I'm not as important or interesting as, like, Brad Pitt or Paris Hilton," Spencer tried to reason with Ryan once, over the phone at 3 in the morning.  
  
Ryan snorted. "Paris Hilton is not important. Or interesting."  
  
"Yeah, okay, but she's at least more famous than I am," Spencer said, "and that's my point. Why are they wasting their time following me when she literally lives two blocks away?"  
  
He practically heard the roll of Ryan's eyes. Maybe he just knew him too well. "Dude. You just answered your own question."  
  
That conversation was almost a year old. Today, they're having a completely different one.  
  
"Ryan, I fucking told you a million goddamn times, if you'd ever bother listening to me," Spencer fires off angrily. "I. Don't. Do. Photoshoots."  
  
"Oh, get off your high horse, Your Regalness," Ryan sighs. "It's more a promotion for the tour than it is for you. They just have nothing else that's new to talk about. They gotta find some way to get kids to come to this stupid thing."  
  
Spencer puts a hand on his hip indignantly. "It's the fucking Warped Tour, Ryan. Kids go to that whether it sucks or not. It's like, tradition for them. And either way, if the article is about the tour, why do I have to be the only one that gets their picture taken?"  
  
Ryan, for his part, lets out a loud, furious huff of air before he lays it on him. "Wow, way to be a five-year-old about it, Spence, jesus christ, it's like you don't even realize how it's a big fucking deal that you're joining the tour, that they've never done anything like this before, and Kevin's been on my ass all fucking month to get this whole thing arranged, and I got the one of the best fucking guys in the business to do the shoot for a really fucking reasonable price, and it's going to be cover-story material which is fucking huge, okay, my career basically rests on this article being a goddamn success, and if you fuck this up for me I'm probably never going to speak to you again, so if you can just put your stupid pride on the backburner for a couple of days, that would be fucking amazing, alright?!"  
  
To be honest, Spencer isn't sure whether he wants to laugh or start yelling back. "Really, Ry? You're resorting to run-ons?"  
  
"Yeah, well."  
  
Spencer smiles. He can't help it. "Fine. I'll do your stupid photoshoot."  
  
"Thank you. Jesus."  
  
Some days, he's not entirely sure which he hates more: having his picture taken, or being best friends with Ryan Ross.  
  
Probably the latter.  
  
*  
  
When Ryan first called him with the idea, Spencer laughed his ass off, and then gave a vehement  _fuck no._  
  
When Kevin Lyman called him three days later, Spencer realized they were actually serious.  
  
Some of his colleagues and close foodie friends thought he was a little crazy for even considering it, when he first told them. No one had ever heard of a top-rated, gourmet chef going on tour with a rock n' roll festival. To be in charge of  _craft services_. That was the kind of job for mediocre catering companies. Didn't Spencer have three restaurants to oversee, and an actual culinary career to think about?  
  
"That's kind of the beauty of it," he told them. "They're letting me create my own menu, to rotate throughout the week, and each venue has enough staff and equipment for me to work with each day. It'll be like guerilla gourmet!"  
  
The oddest part is, he's actually looking forward to it, excited for it. There's always a thrill that goes along with a new opportunity, but this. This is as new as it gets.   
  
"Congratulations! You're the first rock n' roll chef!" Ryan says, after he receives the signed contract that Spencer faxed him. The excitement in his voice, Spencer knows, is mostly for himself. Straight out of college, where he majored in Event Management, Ryan got a shitty PA job on the Warped Tour, but it was still the fucking  _Warped Tour_. It had been surprising enough that he'd gotten any sort of job with them right off the bat. No surprise to Spencer, Kevin Lyman took an immediate interest in Ryan, first taking him on as his personal assistant, and soon enough promoting him to his Talent Coordinator. Just six months prior, though, he'd gotten the biggest promotion of his life: Festival Producer. It was basically the best job he could have for Warped -- any festival for that matter -- short of being Kevin Lyman himself. It was up to Ryan to make sure that everyone got hired and contracts were signed and schedules were made and equipment was distributed, and so on and so forth. He'd given Spencer an exact outline of each and every one of his duties once. Spencer zoned out after the first two.  
  
Spencer rolls his eyes down the phone line. "Right, something like that."  
  
"You said it yourself, Spence, 'guerilla gourmet.'"  
  
"Yeah, and I regret the day I ever said that to you."  
  
"Look at it this way: now you won't just be a role model and celebrity crush to millions of  _regular_  confused gay kids, you'll be a role model and celebrity crush to thousands of additional  _outcasted_  confused gay kids."  
  
A headache starts to throb somewhere behind Spencer's left eyeball. "Just what I need. A whole new demographic of teenage fans."  
  
"Hey, man, Warped kids aren't  _that_  bad. The kids who love me are actually kind of cool, sometimes."  
  
To his credit, Ryan did have his own cult-like following of misunderstood teen boys and girls. Most scene kids knew his name, whether they liked him or not, which Ryan had always, secretly, wanted for himself. Spencer would never tell anyone how much he truly loved the attention. Half of it came from whoring out his blog via the Warped Tour News Updates, but Kevin pretended like he didn't notice. Or he just didn't care. Ryan was like his pet, or like a son, or something. He let him get away with just about anything.  
  
"It's like I'm the new Hey Chris or something," Ryan said once.  
  
"Except you don't know Pete Wentz," Spencer had replied. The answering glare could have killed kittens, if well-aimed.  
  
*  
  
_Alternative Press_  emails Spencer an itinerary for his photoshoot and interview the morning after he faxes Ryan his Warped contract. The magazine actually operates out of Cleveland, Ohio, but at Spencer's request found a photographer in LA (some kid named Shane that Ryan knew from somewhere, and had recommended) and flew out their interviewer. The photoshoot was scheduled for this afternoon, the interview the next morning.  
  
The phone rings in near synchronization with the twinge of nerves in Spencer's stomach. He hesitates a moment, then stumbles over to answer. "Hello?"  
  
"Hi! Is this Spencer Smith?" comes an overly enthusiastic voice.  
  
"Um, yeah, who's this?"  
  
The person laughs brightly. "Oh, right, hi! Brendon Urie. I guess I'm supposed to be taking some pictures of you today?"  
  
Spencer's stomach drops down a little further. "Hi... you're, um -- " He checks the name of the photographer on his itinerary. "You're not Shane Valdes?"  
  
"Nah, that's my roommate. Or, well, my boss. I'm a photographer, too. Shane owns the company or whatever, and he gives me my assignments. He only does, like, full bands, you know, recording studio and concert work. I do portraits, like actual photoshoots and stuff."  
  
Spencer's a little confused, and not just because this guy's talking a mile a minute. "Wait. But Ryan said you were the best..."  
  
Brendon laughs again, but this time it's a little darker. Like he knows something Spencer doesn't. "That's because I am." He pauses, like he's waiting for Spencer to say something, then continues when he realizes that Spencer won't. "So, anyway, I was just calling to a) confirm the shoot time for this afternoon, and b) see if you wanted to come over and have a little... preliminary discussion?"  
  
"For what?"  
  
"Oh, I just like to get to know my subjects before I shoot them. It helps me get creative, I guess." He laughs for the third time, and this time, it's just a tad self-deprecating.  
  
Spencer vaguely wonders if it's bad that he's only been talking to Brendon for five minutes, and already he can identify his different laughs. Especially when it seems like he has way more than just three.  
  
"So what do you say?"  
  
"Oh, uh, sure, yeah, I'll come in," Spencer says. They arrange for him to come by Brendon's studio in a couple of hours, and Brendon hangs up with a chipper, "Later, Spence!"  
  
Spencer can't tell if the feeling in his stomach is anxiety anymore. It feels kind of like anticipation.  
  
*  
  
Brendon Urie is fucking hot.  
  
Like, the kind of hot that Spencer really only fantasizes about. He's not  _flawless_ , or  _perfect_ , or anything stupid like that. But he is undeniably sexy, and the small flaws Spencer can see just make him more so. He carries himself with such confidence, from the moment he opens the studio door and waves Spencer inside. All Spencer sees at first is a lot of messy, dark hair, and big brown eyes, and big full mouth, and a hint of stubble. And then he looks  _down_.   
  
Brendon is wearing a tight red t-shirt, stretching over his chest and down the lines of his lean frame, stopping just where a pair of black gym shorts began. The elastic hugs the sharp bones of his hips, and then the shorts give way to muscular calves and ugh. Spencer's a little worried that he's drooling.  
  
It's... maybe been too long since he's gotten laid.  
  
When his eyes make their way back up to Brendon's face, the shorter man looks thoroughly amused. He arches an eyebrow at Spencer, grinning as if he can't help it. "Hello to you, too."  
  
Spencer can feel his face turn a bright, horrible shade of red. He ducks his head, stepping into the studio and looking around. He avoids Brendon's gaze at all costs. After a moment of studying the various lights and backdrops and chairs, and Brendon still studying him with that huge grin, Spencer clears his throat. "So, you wanted to have some kind of talk?"  
  
Brendon shuts the door and locks it. "Right. Let's go into my office."  
  
The studio is a spacious loft, with a kitchenette next to a small bathroom across the room from the set, and next to the bathroom is another door. Inside, Brendon has a desk with a Mac and a huge monitor, and a bookcase full of different cameras, lenses, tripods, and other camera equipment. He takes a seat in one of two plush chairs facing the desk, while Brendon goes and sits down behind it.  
  
"So. Spencer Smith. Culinary prodigy turned rogue chef."  
  
Spencer rolls his eyes. "It's really not that dramatic."  
  
Brendon smirks and relaxes back into his chair, eyes sleepy as they watch him. "Oh? Tell me what it's like."  
  
"Well, um, I've just been overseeing the three restaurants I have lately. My friend, Ryan, he knew I was looking for an opportunity to actually  _cook_  again. I mean, I guess I could have always opened another place, here in LA or something, but I don't know. It just felt like too much of the same old. So Ryan concocted this crazy idea for me to -- " He cuts himself off abruptly at the realization that Brendon actually  _does_  look bored now. As soon as he stops talking, Brendon rolls his eyes and leans forward again.  
  
"Look, Spencer, for this to come out right, you can't talk to me like I'm a reporter," he explains slowly, but not condescendingly. It actually makes Spencer feel a little more at ease. "I mean, a picture isn't worth anything if there's no _emotion_. Talk to me like I'm... I don't know, Ryan? Talk to me like I'm your friend, someone you trust. Tell me your hopes, fears, whatever. Just be straight up with me, dude."  
  
It seems easy enough. He's talked to Ryan about that kind of shit so much, it should be simple to just let it all out again. But he opens his mouth, and finds it just... doesn't want to come out. "I... uh, heh, sorry. I guess I'm not used to talking to strangers like this."  
  
"It's fine," Brendon says quickly. "Whenever you're ready to. We can move on to other stuff." With that, he turns the computer monitor around so both of them can see it, and pushes the keyboard toward Spencer. "Log in to your Facebook."  
  
Spencer looks at him dubiously for a moment, but does as he's asked. He has a page under the name James Spencer, with a picture of Ryan's dog as his default. Sometimes fans still find it, and try to friend him or whatever. He likes to have a little semblance of normalcy in his life, though, so he never adds them, or anyone he hasn't met in person. There are lots of pictures of him on there, that Ryan or his friend Jon from Chicago (who's actually a professional photographer himself, and usually goes out on Warped with Ryan every year) have taken recently, old ones from college and even a couple from high school.  
  
Brendon doesn't say anything about the alias or decoy picture. He just says, "Show me some pictures where you think you look good."  
  
Spencer snorts a laugh, clicking on the photo link. "Isn't the photographer supposed to figure out what looks good?"  
  
Brendon smirks at him. "It's more about the client. If I'm taking pictures that you like, I'm happier than if I take pictures  _I_ like. We could have completely opposite opinions."  
  
Something about that just eases the tension in the room even more. Spencer's shoulders are starting to feel looser, his stomach not quite so fluttery. He clicks through his pictures, pointing out a few along the way. Brendon nods at each one, studying them closely before motioning for Spencer to continue. Pretty soon, they've gone through the whole lot. Brendon smiles as he turns the computer back to rights. "So, what, you think you're fat or something?"  
  
Spencer blushes again, glaring a little. " _No_. I know I'm not. I go running, I work out. I know I'm not."  
  
"Okay, well, I just noticed that most of the pictures you pointed out were lit from the front, and above. So that it cast shadows around the edges of your face. It's good, though, that is good lighting for you. It brings out your cheekbones, your eyes, your jaw. I can work with that."  
  
"I know I'm not fat."  
  
Brendon smiles, soft. "I know."  
  
"Just... we can't all be fucking twigs like stupid Ryan Ross. In comparison to him..."  
  
"Oh, don't do that to yourself, man. You're a good-looking guy. Don't think otherwise." He smiles even more for a moment, eyes sweeping over Spencer's face. He seems to catch himself, looking away quickly and clearing his throat. "But, I mean, if there  _is_  anything you're self-conscious about, let me know. I can do my best with lighting and wardrobe to make it unnoticeable."  
  
Spencer hesitates, then says, "I, uh. I know I'm not fat, okay? It's just... a lot of the pictures from photoshoots I've done in the past were... they made my face look really... round. Fuck, that feels dumb to say."  
  
Brendon laughs. "Don't feel dumb. Seriously, be a nit-picky pain in the ass. You'll be happier with the result that way. And I'm getting paid to put up with you, so." He rolls his eyes at himself, smiling broadly.  
  
Smiling back, Spencer suddenly feels completely at ease. "Alright, then. I want to keep my beard. No elaborate make-up, or actually, no make-up at all. No costumes. No weird themes. Nothing to do with food, for the love of god. And I'm not gonna do all sorts of ridiculous poses. I'm happier if I can just stand there and forget there's even a camera pointed at me."  
  
The nature of Brendon's smile completely changes at the last remark. It slides, slow and dirty, across his face. His eyelids droop again. "That can be arranged."  
  
Spencer swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. "Uh."  
  
Brendon leans forward again on his desk. "Which brings us to our next topic. Tell me about your turn-ons."  
  
Uh. "I-Is that relevant?"  
  
Brendon nods slowly. "Very."  
  
Let the record state that Spencer Smith is not a prude.  _Not_. He likes sex, likes having as much of it as he can, as often as he can. Sure, maybe it hasn't been very often since his girlfriend Haley in college. And okay, so maybe it hasn't even been since he _came out_ , but that's more because of work than anything else. It's hard to meet someone when you're constantly flying between two countries and various states. And, okay, it kind of makes him uncomfortable to actually talk out loud about sex. He won't even really discuss it with Ryan, who's happy as a clam to describe, in detail, the various positions and locations of his sexual adventures. But Spencer just isn't Like That. He's a gentleman. And not a prude.  
  
Maybe that's why he answers. Because he wants Brendon to know that he is, in fact, a fan of sex. To the point where he has preferences. Or something.  
  
"I'm gay," is the first horrifyingly embarrassing thing that spills out of his mouth. Brendon just grins wide.  
  
"Oh really? I hadn't noticed, from the way you stared at my ass like a piece of steak when you walked in."  
  
And honestly, why had his face even stopped blushing? "Sorry, I'm sorry, I -- "  
  
"No. It's okay. I have a nice ass." Brendon smiles his dirty smile again, then nods as if to tell him to keep talking.  
  
Spencer wants to agree with him, because fuck, he  _does_ , but instead he focuses his mind and thinks about his answer. "Um. I guess. I like... talking? Like... you know... dirty talking." He winces with how awkwardly he says that. "And. I don't know. That's... probably it, to be honest. I guess I'm kind of vanilla." He shrugs.  
  
Brendon laughs at that, blinking away the dark look in his eyes before Spencer can really get a good look at it. "That's fine, dude, makes my job a hell of a lot easier."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." Brendon types something into the computer, then smiles up at Spencer again. "So, meet back here around one? I'm gonna need some time to set everything up the way I want it."  
  
"Sure," Spencer says, standing up. "Should I wear anything in particular?"  
  
Brendon gives him a quick once over. "Layers."  
  
*  
  
Ryan calls right in the middle of a very serious meltdown. "Spencer, are you hyperventilating?"  
  
"No, fuck you." Truth is, he's kind of hyperventilating.  
  
It's just that he's sitting there, in his room, literally  _surrounded_  by his own clothing, and he has no fucking idea what to wear. Brendon said layers, but that could mean pretty much anything. And, well, he wants to look good. Normally, that's not such a problem. Normally, he can clear his mind enough to look at a few pairs of jeans and know which ones will cling just right. But now, all he sees is an ocean of blue denim, and he has no clue which to choose.  
  
"Okay, calm down, walk me through it." If Ryan didn't sound so patronizing, he'd almost be a comfort. Almost.  
  
Spencer sighs heavily, standing up to survey his piles of clothes again. "Well, first of all, Ross, you booked me with probably the most gorgeous photographer I've ever seen, so, not cool."  
  
"Who, Shane?"  
  
" _No_ , his portrait guy, Brendon something."  
  
There's a brief pause, and then Ryan bursts out laughing. "Oh... oh my god... you're shooting with  _Brendon Urie?_ "  
  
"Um, yeah, I figured you knew that."  
  
"No way, dude, I had them book you with Shane, specifically! He must've double-booked by accident or something. Fuck, this is so priceless, I'm totally buying him dinner next time I'm in town, shit." He still gasping around peals of laughter, trying to hold them back and failing miserably.  
  
Spencer bristles, his shoulders coming up by his ears. "What the fuck is so funny?"  
  
Ryan takes a moment to calm himself down before he says, "Spence, the guy's like, one of the biggest photographers in the music industry right now. I mean, I knew he worked with Shane, but I figured I wouldn't even bother trying. He's shot _everyone_ , man. He's  _infamous_." Ryan says it like it makes Brendon some kind of celestial being. But then again, being infamous is another one of Ryan's secret dreams.  
  
"Infamous for what?"  
  
"For getting a rise out of people. All the spreads he's done have been, like,  _completely_  sexual, and he's only shot for Playboy once, so. He's more tame for non-skin mags, obviously, but I went to one of his gallery shows here in New York, and man, you would not believe the shit he does. There were pictures of people just straight-up fucking, every position you could imagine, close-ups on stuff I'd really rather not see, like seriously filthy shit. It was... kind of brilliant."  
  
Spencer feels ill. "So... the fact that he was hitting on me during our meeting today?"  
  
There's another pause, but this time, Ryan doesn't start laughing. He breathes out slowly, like it's dawning on him what's really happening here. Spencer tells himself it's stupid to be embarrassed, but. Well. "Hey, look, don't take it to heart, okay? It's just part of his job. It's nothing to do with you, y'know? Who cares if he really thinks you're hot or not? He probably isn't even gay."  
  
"None of that really helps, Ry."  
  
Ryan sighs. "Sorry, Spence. You know what, though, if you're really into this guy, you should like, entice him."  
  
"What."  
  
"Seriously. Wear, um... oh! Wear your grey henley, the long-sleeved one? Unbuttoned. Then a black button down over that, with the sleeves rolled up halfway, and... ooh, and those Diesel jeans I bought with you last time I was there? Yeah, dude, like, I love women, but I would honestly consider switching teams for you in those jeans."  
  
Spencer digs around for the right pieces, then huffs a laugh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Ross."  
  
"Only gay above the waist, remember?"  
  
In thanks for picking out the perfect outfit for him, Spencer chooses not to mercilessly ridicule Ryan for his blindingly obvious Pete Wentz crush --  _again_. He thinks that's pretty decent of him.  
  
*  
  
Brendon calls as Spencer's on his way out the door, and asks him to bring one of his white chef coats. Spencer winces inwardly, because, seriously, he said  _no food_.  
  
The drive back to the studio isn't so bad. Honestly, Spencer feels more at ease with the whole situation now that he knows Brendon isn't actually into him. It's like there's less pressure to be perfectly photogenic, or something. Maybe this won't be so bad.  
  
When he arrives, Brendon gives him a quick once-over, smiling approvingly, and waves him inside. The set doesn't look much different from earlier. It's a dark blue backdrop with a backwards couch, black leather. The lights are arranged in front of the set, large and looming like giants over where Spencer assumes he'll be standing. Between the lights is a tall tripod with a camera set atop it, large lens stretching out toward the couch.   
  
"We'll do hair and make-up first, before we get set up," Brendon says, leading Spencer into the bathroom. The mirror is surrounded with lightbulbs, like a dressing room mirror. He's seen them a number of times, at shows Ryan's dragged him to, wandering around backstage between sets, and other photoshoots. Brendon sits him down in a fold-out chair in front of the mirror, and starts fussing with his hair. "Can I cut this for you?"  
  
"Uh. Do you know what you're doing?"  
  
Brendon smiles at his reflection. "Sure! I'm licensed, actually. I went to cos school before I got into this whole photography business. Shane's influence." He rolls his eyes, starting to comb out Spencer's hair and spray it with a water bottle. "Shit, dude, when's the last time you cut this mop?"  
  
It's said playfully, but he's right. It's been at least six months. "A long time, I guess. So what are you thinking for the shoot?"  
  
_Snip snip snip snip_. "I was thinking a series of shots, since it's for a pretty big article. They're gonna need three or four, plus the cover. Anyway, I asked you for layers because I figured we could do one per layer. Chef's coat, black shirt, grey shirt, and then no shirt, if you're cool with it." He shoots Spencer another smirk through the mirror. "I mean, you said you work out and everything, so I figured it wouldn't be an issue."  
  
He says it plaintively enough, but Spencer can't help feeling like it's some kind of a test. So he just shrugs. It's not like he cares about being photographed shirtless, or being in a magazine shirtless, even if it is a first. He runs and he goes to the gym on a regular basis, and sometimes he dabbles in surfing, so he's not ashamed of his body at all. He says, with a wry smile, "I mean, if this were five years ago, I'd probably have punched you in the face just for asking."  
  
"Not such a problem anymore?"  
  
"Nah."  
  
Twenty minutes later, Brendon's got his hair chopped short, and sloppy. Some spots are longer than others, and his bangs hang choppily into his face until Brendon sculpts them more artfully with some hair puddy. He looks disheveled, but, well, kind of sexy. Like he just rolled out of bed after a lot of amazing sex. Brendon seems happy with his work, too, eyes roaming over Spencer's face in the mirror. And, per his request, his beard is still intact. It just makes him look more rugged. Spencer's never really thought of himself that way before. He thinks he could get used to it.  
  
His eyes go wide and wary when Brendon picks up a compact and a make-up brush. "Oh, hell no. I said no make-up."  
  
"Relax, it's just some foundation to keep you from looking too shiny under the lights." Brendon carefully sweeps it over Spencer's face. It doesn't feel heavy like the make-up Ryan used to force Spencer to put on, which is nice. And when he looks in the mirror, it doesn't seem like he's even wearing any. Brendon smiles at him again, setting the make-up aside. "Alright, Spencer Smith. Ready for your close-up?"  
  
*  
  
The photoshoot starts simply enough.  
  
Brendon sets Spencer up, has him stand in front of the couch in his chef's jacket, arms folded, looking into the camera. He feels a little on edge already, digging his fingers into the starched material of his sleeve. Brendon seems to notice this as he's triple-checking his light meter. "You okay, Spencer?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah... just... this always makes me kind of nervous," Spencer admits.  
  
"Well, don't be. I'm gonna be talking to you the whole time. Trust me, you won't even know there's a camera in the room." Brendon winks, knowing he's nearly repeating Spencer's own words back to him. He checks the light meter a final time, then grabs a black box and sets it behind the camera, stepping up onto it to be eye-level with the viewfinder. He adjusts the lens a little, messes with his settings, snaps a couple of test shots, until finally he says, "Alright, here we go."  
  
The camera starts clicking, and Spencer has no fucking clue what he's supposed to be doing. Brendon isn't saying anything, giving him no direction whatsoever. So Spencer just stands there, stares straight into the camera lens, and waits. He tries to get himself to relax, thinks about dinner hour at Hey Moon -- his very first restaurant, named by Ryan -- and how he could just melt right into a rhythm, cooking and arranging plates and shouting out ticket orders. His eyes must glaze over, because Brendon starts snapping his fingers, muttering, "Stay with me, man, come on." Apparently that's not what Brendon's looking for.  
  
"Tell me what to do," Spencer says.  
  
Brendon snaps a couple more shots, then replies, "Alright, next layer. Keep looking at the camera."  
  
He keeps taking pictures even as Spencer unbuttons his jacket and pulls it off, eyes still trained to the lens. It takes him completely by surprise when Brendon breathes out, "Fuck, that's hot." Try as he might, he knows the shock comes through on his face, especially when Brendon leans away from the camera and smiles at him. "Don't look so surprised. You're gorgeous." He studies him for a moment, then says, "Just throw your jacket over the couch. And then, brace your hands on the top of it, rest your weight back."  
  
Spencer does as he's directed, Brendon humming his approval once he's in the right position. The camera starts clicking again, and then Brendon, well, Brendon starts talking. "Shit, Spence, your eyes look so blue right now. They're so intense, like they're looking right into my soul or something. It makes me wonder what they look like when you're in bed."  
  
The last comment makes heat rise in Spencer's cheeks, but not out of embarrassment. Ryan warned him about this; Brendon's infamous for his sexual, suggestive photos. It's no surprise that he'd try to go the same direction with him. It's all about making a good shoot, right? About evoking emotion. It has nothing to do with anything Brendon actually thinks about him. He just has to remember that, and keep a clear head.  
  
Brendon bites his lip behind the camera, then keeps going, "I wonder if they turn a darker shade of blue when you tear my clothes off. If your pupils get blown when you touch my skin, trail your fingers across my stomach and make me shiver with it, wanting your hands and your eyes all over me."  
  
Maybe Spencer's mouth falls open just a fraction, because wow, holy fuck, does Brendon have a mouth on him. But he remembers their conversation in the office that morning. He told him that dirty talk was one of his turn-ons (really, his  _only_ turn-on), so Brendon's just using this knowledge against him. It's not going to work. He holds on tighter to the couch, like an anchor point, and Brendon lets out a small groan when his arms flex.  
  
"God, and your hands. You wrap them around my wrists and hold me down, so I can't move, and you grind down against me, your fingers leaving bruises that I can look at for days. I'd touch them and get hard just thinking about you keeping me pinned, I'd picture your eyes roaming over my body until I'm aching for it and I can't hold back anymore, I just have to touch myself and think of you and wish for your body over mine."  
  
Really. It's not going to work.  
  
"Next layer, Spencer."  
  
The camera clicks furiously as Spencer slowly unbuttons his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. His eyes stay glued to the lens, as much as he wants to glance over at Brendon, to see how he's reacting. Which is stupid. Brendon's just doing his job. After the shirt is off, Spencer resumes his previous position, hands braced on the couch, but he shifts his weight so one of his hips juts out more than the other.  
  
Brendon moans, just a little, like he couldn't hold it in. "You look so fucking good like this, Spence, you have no idea. I just wanna grab your hips in my hands and pull you against me, rock up into you and make you moan for me. Lick across your collarbone and up the side of your neck, bite across your jaw, and tell you all the fucking filthy things I want you to do to me. Hold me up against a wall and fuck me until I can't see straight, bend me over a countertop and fuck me with your tongue until I'm begging for your cock, deep inside me, driving me crazy -- "  
  
Okay, so maybe Spencer's mouth waters at the thought, but he reasons, if he keeps trying to resist this, whatever it is, the pictures probably won't come out as well as they should. And, wouldn't that be a shame? Besides, if Brendon isn't actually interested in him at all, then he sure can fake it with the best of them.  
  
Spencer grabs the hem of his shirt and starts pulling it off before Brendon even tells him to. From behind the camera, Brendon makes this choked off noise, halfway between a gasp and a deep, dark laugh, and Spencer takes the moment of sanctuary beneath his shirt to let his eyes roll back into his head. He's so fucked.  
  
When he gets the shirt over his head, his arms stretched up and back behind his head as he wrestles it the rest of the way off his wrists, Spencer makes sure to lock his eyes to the lens again, not even bothering to fix his hair like he normally would. The henley falls with a muted thump onto the other side of the couch, and suddenly Spencer's aware of the piece of furniture in a way he definitely wasn't before. He can't stop the images flooding his mind, of Brendon trapped beneath him, sweating and writhing and panting for Spencer. The way his fingers would tense and dig into the leather when Spencer pushed inside him. The way their sweat would make the leather stick to their skin, leave marks wherever it touched.  
  
Brendon makes a pleased noise, snapping pictures, and then Spencer notices how his hands are already sliding across his stomach, heading for the clasp of his jeans. He's fucking hard now, there's no point in even denying it or trying to hide it, and he needs to touch himself, needs some relief. Brendon's driving him up the wall with this. He can barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears, his skin sensitive and hot. The flush that settled much earlier on his cheeks is appearing across his chest, and then in his peripheral vision, he notices Brendon fiddling with the camera again.   
  
And then he's moving off of the box, crossing over to where Spencer's standing. The camera clicks as it takes a picture of the both of them, Spencer staring down into Brendon's wide, dark eyes. He licks over his lips, breathing heavily through his nose, and Brendon mimicks the motion with his own full, red mouth. Oh, Spencer  _wants_.  
  
"Don't look at me," Brendon murmurs, as the camera clicks again. "Keep your eyes on the lens." Spencer immediately obeys, flicking his eyes back over, catching the shutter as it captures them for the third time. It must be on some kind of timer, he realizes belatedly.  
  
Spencer bites back a groan when Brendon practically rips his jeans open, shoving them down with his boxers, but not far. He purrs like a cat at the sight of Spencer's cock, flushed and wet, curving up toward his stomach, and Brendon sinks slowly to his knees. God, he wants to, but Spencer doesn't look down. Brendon breathes over his cock, making Spencer's thighs tremble in anticipation, and then Brendon says, "I couldn't help it, Spence; I needed to know if you taste as good as you fucking look." He wastes no time wrapping his mouth around Spencer's dick, pushing his head forward until it slides down his throat.  
  
"Unnh, holy  _fuck_ , Brendon," Spencer groans, eyes still staring into the lens. He reaches down and tangles a hand in Brendon's hair as the smaller man starts bobbing his head in earnest, licking over the tip of his cock every time he pulls back. It's so tight and wet and hot and, fuck, it's been so long since Spencer's had this, he's not sure how long he can hold off. Especially when he's already worked up from the images Brendon's been creating in his head.  
  
It really doesn't take more than a few minutes of Brendon's enthusiastic deep-throating, especially after he pulls off and says quietly, "You should fuck my throat," and well, Spencer doesn't exactly argue. He feels his orgasm washing over him, digging his free hand into his own hair so as not to hurt Brendon, his jaw falling open, his head tipping back a little, but his eyes staring straight ahead.   
  
Then he's coming, grunting out a useless warning, but Brendon just holds his hips tight and sucks him through it. Fuck, it's so good so good so good, and Spencer can't really see anything for a second, even though his eyes are still wide open. He's panting, finally closing his eyes, and the camera clicks away. His brain shifts into place, and he looks down at Brendon.   
  
Brendon, who's sitting back on his heels, with a hand shoved down his jeans. He's staring up at Spencer, breathing loud, moaning in his throat on every stroke of his hand, and then his whole body tenses as he comes, slumping forward against Spencer's legs. "Fuck," he gasps, "fuck, that was so hot."  
  
"There are pictures -- " Spencer starts.  
  
"Don't worry," Brendon says, looking up at him again. His voice is raw and harsh. "No one's gonna see those."   
  
_Oh holy motherfuck_ , Spencer thinks suddenly.  _What the hell did I just do?_  
  
"I have to go," he squeaks, pulling up his jeans and grabbing his scattered clothes in a whirlwind of motion. Brendon barely has time to call after him before he's out the door and in his car, speeding away.

*

Three weeks later, Ryan comes to visit him in LA.   
  
Well, he actually flies into LA because Warped Tour starts the following week, and the tour leaves out of California. But Spencer likes to pretend that Ryan wouldn't have showed up a week early if it wasn't to visit him.   
  
It's always good to see Ryan in the flesh again. They've known each other since they were little kids, growing up in Las Vegas, and nearly inseparable until Ryan left for college. Spencer remembers how that year started, dreary and gray with how much he missed his best friend. He'd shut himself up in his room after school every day, only venturing out to eat or shower. The phone became almost like a replacement Ryan, with how much time he spent talking to him on it. Spencer's parents finally bought him a cell phone that year to keep him from monopolizing the land line. But he'd made his peace with their separation soon enough, and since then, he and Ryan haven't really spent more than a week or two at a time together. Both being busy, their friendship is maintained mostly through email and text messages, and the regular phone call.  
  
Now that they're both grown and independent, Spencer wonders why Ryan won't just move out to LA for good. He visits at least three or four times a year for work, but he's strangely adamant about staying in New York. Spencer suspects there's a girl involved, but Ryan is also strangely adamant about  _not_  discussing his love life. He's never had a very good track record. Spencer figures he doesn't want to jinx it, or something.  
  
Either way, Ryan's here now, so Spencer takes advantage of this and drags him out shopping. He needs some kind of therapy after the stress of the photoshoot and interview, and the past three weeks he's spent brooding in his house, and Ryan's one of the only people willing to put up with his extreme retail addiction. His own sisters won't go to Rodeo Drive with him, even when he offers to buy them a new purse or perfume or something. Apparently, he takes too long. Whatever.  
  
Spencer steadfastly ignores the way Ryan starts clawing at the car window when he realizes where they're going. "Spencer, please, I beg you!" he cries dramatically. "There's so many wonderful things I could do with the next six hours of my life!"  
  
"Oh, shut the fuck up, I need new shoes."  
  
Ryan's eyes go even wider, horrified. "It's worse than I thought. I could call the police. I'm sure this qualifies as a hostage situation."  
  
Spencer rolls his eyes. "I'll buy you In n' Out." It's a pretty well-known fact that Spencer loathes fast food burger joints more than just about anything in the world. There's just no  _care_ , no passion. Sloppily thrown together, frozen burgers and chicken bits fried in stale oil... the thought alone is enough to make him cringe.  
  
But this seems to pacify Ryan's theatrics, and he relaxes back into his seat. "Well, when you put it that way..." He pulls his phone out of his pocket, the screen lit up with a phone call. Spencer tries not to eavesdrop as Ryan answers. "Hello? Hey, Kevin, what's up? Uh huh. Yeah. Oh, really?" He glances over at Spencer, smirking evilly. "No, that's awesome. Yeah, I'm with him right now. We'll keep an eye out. Thanks, dude." The smirk only grows larger and more sinister as he hangs up and turns to face Spencer.  
"Do I even want to know?"  
  
Ryan laughs. "Oh. You want to know." He pauses for dramatic effect. "Your issue drops today."  
  
Spencer almost swerves off the road.  
  
"Holy fuck, Spence!" Ryan shouts, grabbing onto the dashboard for dear life. "What the hell are you doing?"  
  
"Sorry, sorry."  
  
"Jesus, I thought you'd be pumped, not try to kill us."  
  
"Right."  
  
Ryan shoots him a weird look as he settles back into his seat. "What's up with you?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Oh, fuck off, I'm not stupid. You're freaking out right now."  
  
"No, I'm not." Yes, he is. All he can think about is what the pictures are going to look like, if people will be able to tell what kind of shit Brendon was saying to him. Spencer certainly hasn't forgotten, not a single moment of that encounter. It's been playing on a loop in his brain, over and over, every goddamn night since it happened, even when he's asleep. Spencer's woken up hard and sweating and  _aching_  far too many times in the past few weeks. And he hasn't heard from Brendon at all, not that he expected to. Or wanted to. It was just a job, like he thought, and it's probably better that Brendon hasn't tried to call him or anything, because Spencer feels like a fucking moron for letting  _that_  happen. There's no way he's telling Ryan that he fell for Brendon Urie's Infamous Sex Games.  
  
"Dude, did something happen?"  
  
Spencer sighs. "Ryan, shut up."  
  
Ryan's eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree. "Oh dude, something  _happened_."  
  
"Nothing happened, okay, that Urie guy is just an asshole, and I don't want to talk about it. Can we please drop it?"  
  
"Fine." They remain silent for the rest of the drive, as Spencer finds a place to park and even through the first three stores. It's actually shaping up to be a pretty good day; Spencer's already found three new pairs of shoes, and a pair of jeans for practically nothing because of a tiny ass rip near one of the belt loops. Ryan's even having a good time, for once, buying a couple of scarves and a hat. It's like a huge sigh of relief. Then they pass a newsstand, and Ryan literally falls over laughing. Spencer, who's about five paces ahead of him, turns to ask what the hold up is, and then.   
  
Oh, then he sees it.  
  
His own brilliantly blue eyes stare at him fiercely from the magazine cover. There's a dark blue background and bright yellow letters, shouting, "SPENCER SMITH: TOO HOT FOR THE KITCHEN" next to him. But that's really not what Spencer's looking at.  
  
What's he fucking looking at is the way his fingers are tangled in his hair, jaw tense and tilted up, mouth slightly open. The way his pale, bare chest stretches on seemingly forever, the bottom of the magazine cutting off about mid-thigh. Which is part of the problem.  
  
The thing is, Magazine Spencer's jeans are hanging open, and there are hands curled around his hips, and he has his other hand shoved through the dark, tousled hair that's covering his crotch. It's so fucking obvious what's going on, made even more obvious by how positively  _wrecked_  Spencer looks. He just stares and stares and stares, praying to god that he's hallucinating. But Ryan's still cackling away, red-faced and gasping for breath, going, "Oh my -- holy --  _Spence_ , what -- "  
  
Spencer's too busy trying to sink through the sidewalk and disappear to notice. Then his phone rings. Ryan calms down long enough to watch Spencer go pale and say, horrified, "It's my  _mother_ ," before he nearly pisses his pants with hysterics.  
  
*  
  
The issue is pulled from the shelves two days later. Apparently it's too pornographic. Spencer's not arguing.  
  
But then  _Rolling Stone_  reprints the article and the cover after making a deal with  _AP_ , and they even sell it in an opaque wrapper so that no one can see it until they buy it. Which Spencer is at least somewhat grateful for. Now he doesn't have to see his own lustful eyes staring at him whenever he passes a newstand or a drug store. But the fact is, they're still selling it, and people are still seeing it, and it's  _still_  fucking humiliating.  
  
Also, a little amazing, but Spencer won't admit that to anyone.  
  
What he does have to deal with is the stress of getting a menu and equipment and logistics and staff taken care of for Warped, which is two days away, and on top of that, people stopping him every two steps on the street to ask if he's the guy getting his dick sucked on the cover of Rolling Stone. It's pretty irritating. There are rumors flying about who the dark brown hair belongs to, of course, and the people who stop him always ask for the secret. He obviously never tells them, but some of the speculation is pretty funny. The argument for Adam Lambert is heated. Ryan laughs so hard he cries when Spencer tells him that.  
  
And Spencer honestly wouldn't be that upset about the whole thing, if it weren't for the one cover picture. He's read the article -- stupidly titled "Peeling Back His Layers" -- and the other four pictures are perfectly fine. The first is him mid-motion, pulling at the front lapel of his chef's jacket. The second, unbuttoning his black shirt. The third, his arms behind his head, grey henley wrapped around his wrists. The fourth, starting to unbutton his jeans, which, while still kind of risque, especially since his boner is completely and utterly obvious, is not that bad. And he has to admit, he looks damn good. Brendon did a terrific job, even if he did break his promise that no one would see the end of the roll.  
  
That, he's pissed about. Super pissed. Like, so pissed that if he saw Brendon walking down the street, he'd haul off and punch him right in the fucking face. It was  _seriously_  uncool of him to use that picture when he knew Spencer didn't want him to. What the fuck. Ryan says it's even further proof that Brendon's just some asshole who gets his rocks off taking dirty pictures, even if he is brilliant. It's further proof that he never really liked Spencer at all. He probably hooked up with all of his clients, or at least the ones who weren't opposed to dicks. It should make him feel better, but it really just makes him feel lousy.  
  
Spencer tries to distract himself by spending every waking hour working on recipes for the tour. He holes up in his kitchen, experimenting and seeing which dishes work better in bulk than others, which ones take too long to cook and which ones fall apart after sitting out for more than twenty minutes. He doesn't answer his phone, except for business and Ryan, and he most definitely does not open the email in his inbox from bdenurie@shanevaldesproductions.com.  
  
*  
  
Warped Tour is a nightmare.  
  
They're two weeks in, currently stationed just outside of Houston, and Spencer is ready to rip his own hair out. It's hot outside, but even hotter in the venue's kitchen, where he's currently trying to throw together another batch of saffron cous-cous before the lunch rush starts. He has a few souz chefs with him, and venue workers who said they have kitchen experience, but it's mostly just him flying around, tasting this and adding to that and checking on the other thing. So far, the gourmet lunch thing has been a tremendous success, which is both good and terribly awful. The bands and roadies have come to expect high quality, and if it's less than that, they start to grumble about Spencer Smith not being the chef they thought he was.  
  
Ryan came to check on him that morning, muttering about the venue promoter (who he's so eloquently deemed, "that fucking dumbass motherfucker") and making sure Spencer's got everything he needs. It's nice having him there, even if they don't get to see much of each other during the day. At night, after everything's wrapped up, though, the tour comes together for a barbeque that, thankfully, Spencer has no part in cooking. He and Ryan -- and sometimes Jon -- sit in lawn chairs and drink shitty beer and talk about nothing, and it actually feels pretty great. Like something they should've started doing years ago, had distance and work not gotten in the way.  
  
Tonight's barbeque is still hours away, though, and right now Spencer has to concentrate on the task before him. He's got half an hour to get three trays ready, and the main entree of crushed hazelnut and panko chicken (two trays of tofu for the vegans) is only halfway done. He's in that familiar zone, lost to the outside world, when the faint sound of the screen door opening and slamming registers in his brain. One of the souz chefs, he thinks her name is Katie, taps him on the shoulder a few seconds later.  
  
"Spencer?" she says tentatively. "There's someone here to see you."  
  
"Tell Ryan this isn't a good time. I'll radio him later."  
  
Katie looks a little lost. "It's not Ryan..."  
  
Spencer lifts his head, confused, and turns. A wave of fury hits him when he spots Brendon fucking Urie hovering by the door. He turns back around, focusing on the food again. "Katie, you can tell my visitor that he can fuck off. Those exact words."  
  
Katie's eyes widen, and she turns very slowly back toward Brendon, opening her mouth to relay Spencer's message. But Brendon apparently isn't taking no for an answer. He marches right up to Spencer's station, hands on his hips. "Spencer Smith, you're not getting rid of me by proxy."  
  
Spencer sighs heavily, closing his eyes and counting to ten so he doesn't shove Brendon into one of the hot burners, or something. When he's feeling a little less homicidal, he opens his eyes again. "Katie, could you finish this cous-cous off and get it on the cart, please? I'll be right back."  
  
The air outside is thick and oppressive when Spencer leaves the kitchen, Brendon on his heels. He's heading for the bus that he shares with Ryan and Jon. At least there he can lock the door and keep Brendon the fuck away from him. He pulled off his chef's coat as he walked out of the kitchen, not wanting to get dust all over it, and also feeling lighter in just his black t-shirt and jeans. Brendon trots up next to him, half-running to keep up with the pace of Spencer's longer legs.  
  
"I'm not going to fucking talk to you," Spencer says.  
  
"You already are," Brendon points out.  
  
Spencer growls in frustration, whipping around to face Brendon. "What the fuck are you even doing here?"  
  
Brendon shrugs. "Shane says I need to practice my concert photography. He got me on for a few weeks."  
  
"Well that's just great. Don't you have other lives you could be ruining?" He stalks off again.  
  
Brendon follows, scoffing. "Oh, I  _ruined_  your life? Funny, 'cause I'm pretty sure I made you fucking legendary." He grabs Spencer's arm, pulling him to a stop. "Spence, will you just stop and talk to me?"  
  
"There's nothing to talk about." Sure, he's being a little petulant, but Brendon deserves it.  
  
"Oh, there isn't?"  
  
"No! You fucking sold me out, man. You used that picture when you said you wouldn't, and you did it for your own benefit, for some goddamned publicity stunt! I know what you're famous for, I know I was just part of the same old Brendon Urie Game. But I'm not cool with that, so if you'd kindly  _fuck off_."  
  
Brendon's just gaping like a fish. "Game? Publicity -- ? What the fuck are you talking about?"  
  
"Ryan told me what your work is like, okay," Spencer mutters. "I know...  _that_  all went down just so you could get a good shoot out of it, and that's fine. I understand how you do your work, what goes on with your clients, and whatever, I don't care. It's probably my fault anyway, I shouldn't have... Whatever. Just, I trusted you to keep that shit personal, and you didn't. That's low, Brendon."  
  
"You... you think I do that with..." Suddenly, Brendon's expression closes off. His hands clench into tight fists, arms shaking. He stares right up into Spencer's eyes, his own hard and furious. "Fuck you, Spencer. I'm not like that."  
  
Spencer scoffs, too angry himself to care about how badly his words might hurt. "Oh really? You don't do that for every shoot? I find that really fucking hard to believe."  
  
Brendon shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing. "That's... that's so fucked up, Spencer, I can't believe you... you think I'm some... some  _sleaze_  that just sleeps around with his clients. I'm a professional, okay, I'm not some kind of prostitute!"  
  
Spencer snorts a laugh, sneering. "Could've fooled me."  
  
And, yeah, it's kind of harsh, but Spencer seriously wasn't expecting Brendon to deck him, right there in the middle of the back lot. He stumbles backwards before he falls right on his ass, hand clutching his nose to stem the sudden blood flow. Brendon's small, but his knuckles are hard, and his footsteps are angry as he storms off. Spencer sits there for a few long moments, groaning at the pain blooming over his face. He watches Brendon go, unable to do anything else, and once he gathers his wits enough, he gets to his feet and heads back to the kitchen.  
  
Katie fusses over his face, calling over her radio for a medic, but Spencer just washes off a little and gets back to work. The medic comes and checks him out, tells him his nose isn't broken but it looks like it was a close thing. Something sick and dark settles in Spencer's stomach, thinking about what he said to earn the punch. He feels pretty terrible about it, but not enough to go find him and apologize.  
  
The rest of the day passes smoothly enough, and once lunch is officially over, and everything's cleaned and packed for the road, Spencer heads to the bus to get cleaned up. Ryan's sitting at the kitchenette with his laptop, arguing with someone about start dates for some screamo band. Spencer only knows that's the kind of band it is when Ryan says, sharply, "Look, lady, I have the schedule right in front of me, and your pathetic little screamo band isn't gonna start until the 23rd, period." She must hang up after that, because Ryan slams down his phone a little too hard and mutters, "Stupid bitch."  
  
Spencer snorts a laugh and sits down across from him. "Rough day at work, dear?"  
  
Ryan gives him the finger. "No worse than yours, from what I've heard." He glances up, smirking, "Plus, you look like shit."  
  
Spencer groans, putting his head to the tabletop. "Fuck off. What did you hear, and from who?"  
  
"Well, I heard from Jon that Brendon Urie was coming on tour for a few weeks," Ryan begins, grinning knowingly. " _Then_  I heard from one of the medics that he had to go check out your face for breakage, so I managed to put two and two together."  
  
"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."  
  
"So what'd you do to get yourself clocked by Brendon Urie? I kind of thought it'd be the other way around."  
  
"Yeah, well, I... may have called him a whore."  
  
Ryan, in the middle of sipping at a Red Bull, nearly spits it out all over his computer. "Um, what the fuck, Spence, that's pretty extreme."  
  
Nodding his head miserably, Spencer sighs. "I should probably go find him and apologize, huh?"  
  
"Uh, yeah."  
  
"Do you know where he's staying?"  
  
Ryan clicks through a few of his spreadsheets, then nods. "He's on The Cab's bus. I think Shane knows them. I can radio ahead and have them clear out, if you want."  
  
Spencer's already out the door.  
  
*  
  
The sounds of loud laughter and shouting are audible even from a few yards away. The shades are drawn on The Cab's bus, but Spencer can see shapes behind the curtains, people walking back and forth, waving their arms around. He's almost to the door when someone starts blasting music, the bass rattling the sides of the bus and making Spencer's shoes vibrate. He has doubts that anyone will be able to hear him knock, but he does so anyway, hoping for the best. It's kind of a surprise when the door opens, and a kid with long, limp hair (who Spencer knows only as Singer) appears.  
  
Singer frowns when he sees Spencer standing there, eyes flitting quickly over the purple around his nose. "What's up?" It's a friendly enough remark, but his tone is cold and uninterested.  
  
"I was hoping I could talk to Brendon, if he's here," Spencer says, crossing his arms over his chest. He likes to think he can be intimidating when he needs to. It doesn't seem to be working right now.  
  
"Well, we're kind of in the middle of something," Singer drawls. "Plus, I don't think he really wants to talk to you. He was pretty pissed off earlier."  
  
Spencer sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Can you just tell him I'm here?"  
  
Singer shrugs, but moves back into the bus without closing the door. Spencer takes it as an invitation, hoping that it actually is one, and steps up, pulling the door closed behind himself. He waits on the stairs in the dark, listening to the sounds of partying. The barbeque is probably going to start soon, and he could've just waited until tomorrow for this. He really wants a fucking drink, to numb the pain in his face and make him forget the guilt that's settled in his gut.  
  
It takes a while, but eventually Brendon stumbles down the first couple of steps, stopping and sitting down on the edge of the empty driver's seat. He raises an eyebrow at Spencer, as if waiting for him to speak. When he doesn't, Brendon sighs long-sufferingly. "I'm giving you five minutes to say what you've got to say, and then I'm going back to what I was doing and you're going to leave. Talk."  
  
"Brendon, please, I... I am so fucking sorry for what I said," Spencer blurts. He really hadn't meant to start with pathetic groveling. Brendon's eyebrows shoot up like he hadn't really been expecting that, either. Spencer continues, "I was just so angry with you for using that picture. It was fucking humiliating, and I felt so stupid, because. I don't know. I thought... well, whatever, it doesn't matter what I thought. I was just upset, and that's a fucking poor excuse for calling you what I did, and I'm sorry."  
  
Brendon watches him almost warily for a moment, then clears his throat and ducks his head. "I'm sorry, too. For punching you."  
  
"I deserved it."  
  
"Yeah, you did." They smile at each other. Brendon shakes his head. "But, I'm sorry, also, for giving AP that picture. I really shouldn't have. I told you I wouldn't, and it was wrong of me to go back on that. I just got pissed because you ran off so fast. Thought maybe you were just some asshole celebrity, thought I'd teach you a lesson, I guess." He pauses, then grins. "But hey, at least I got you on the cover of Rolling Stone, right?"  
  
Spencer can't help but laugh. "Yeah, I guess. And... it was a pretty hot picture."  
  
The air goes tense around them, not in a bad way, but as if they're both waiting for something to happen. Brendon fidgets in his lap for a second, then meets Spencer's eyes. His are dark, more than Spencer's ever remembered them. He licks his lips, Spencer's gaze following the motion, before he says, "I have this rule, where I don't sleep with my clients. It's... it's a rule I made for myself when I got into the business, when I started doing the kind of work that I wanted to do. I knew it'd be tough, but I... I never really knew how tough it'd be until you walked into my studio." He screws up his face in a self-mocking manner, tugging at his hair. "I've never been very good at following moral obligations."  
  
Spencer hesitates, then takes a few steps forward, until he's standing between Brendon's legs. His hand curves around Brendon's jaw, tilting his face upwards. "I made a rule for myself, too. Ryan told me you were known for, uh, getting your clients riled up. I told myself I wouldn't let it work on me." He laughs lowly, leaning in. "Guess I'm not very good at it either."  
  
"Fuck, Spence, you're so -- " Brendon grabs him by the shirt, hauling him down and crashing their mouths together. It's all kind of a blur after that, Brendon's hands on him, mouths biting and licking and battling for dominance. Spencer leans forward until Brendon's almost horizontal on the seat, his head against the window. He trails his hand down and under the smaller man's shirt, reveling in the way Brendon purrs when he rubs his thumb along his waistband. Spencer pulls back, staring into Brendon's blown eyes, and suddenly he's burning for this guy, needs to have him right this second.  
  
"You wanna go back to my bus?" Spencer breathes, pressing kisses down Brendon's throat. "I can kick Ryan out."  
  
"Fuck, yeah."  
  
*  
  
When they stumble onto Spencer's bus, breathless and even more turned on (it had been nearly impossible not to shove Brendon up against every available surface on the way over and lick into his mouth and grind up against him), Ryan and Jon are nowhere to be found. Spencer calls for them, just to be safe, but the bus is empty. "They must be at the barbeque," he says, but quickly loses his train of thought when Brendon presses his lips sloppily to the back of his neck.  
  
Spencer turns and pushes Brendon against the counter, crowding over him. He leans down to capture Brendon's mouth, hands tangled in his hair. Brendon opens for him instantly, pushing his hips up to meet Spencer's in a slow grind. Spencer can't help but moan into Brendon's mouth, and Brendon moans right back. The sound sends a wave of hot shivers down Spencer's back. He slides his hands down to Brendon's ass, getting a good grip and hauling him up. Brendon makes a surprised noise, but wraps his legs around Spencer's waist with ease, fingers digging into his biceps to hold on.  
  
They don't go very far, tumbling into Spencer's bunk. Brendon stretches out languidly, staring up at Spencer with sleepy eyes. Spencer moves over him after pulling the curtain shut, sliding a thigh up between his legs and pressing down. Brendon groans, hips arching forward into the touch.  
  
"I think I owe you something," Spencer murmurs, tucking his fingers into the waistband of Brendon's jeans.  
  
Brendon raises an eyebrow, eyes burning. "Oh yeah? Get on with it, then."  
  
Spencer grins, shaking his head. "Pushy."  
  
They laugh together, Brendon's drifting off into a gasp as Spencer unbuttons his jeans and pulls down the zipper, purposely pressing against the line of his erection as he goes. Getting the offending clothes out of the way, Spencer moves down the mattress, glancing back up to find Brendon watching him, one arm propped behind his head comfortably. He grins when he catches Spencer's eye, rolling the wrist of his free hand as if to say, "Continue." Spencer rolls his eyes, swallowing back his nerves as he faces Brendon's cock, now inches from him.  
  
Spencer's never given head before. He's thought about it, sure, and is actually kind of a fan of the idea. It's just... never happened. So sitting here, staring at Brendon's cock, remembering that day in the studio when Brendon had  _deep-throated_ him (and seriously, what the fuck, he didn't even think people really knew how to do that), he's a little intimidated. Is Brendon expecting the same expertise from him? Is he gonna be pissed if Spencer can't deliver?  
  
"Be a man, Smith!" is what Ryan would say. Spencer needs to not think about Ryan right now.  
  
Brendon lifts his head, like he can hear the internal struggle in Spencer's mind. "Is... there a problem?" All the bravado is gone from his voice. Now he just sounds a little scared, like maybe Spencer's had a change of heart and doesn't want this anymore.  
  
Spencer swallows around a lump in his throat, and mutters, "Um. I've never,  _actually_ , done this before." He inhales quickly, and adds, "Or anything really," before he can lose the nerve.  
  
"You've never had sex?" Brendon sounds extremely surprised.  
  
"I'm not a fucking virgin," Spencer snaps, glaring. "I've had sex. Just. Not with a guy." He shrugs. "I've been a little busy since I realized I liked boys."  
  
Brendon makes a choked off sound, like he's holding back a laugh, and nods thoughtfully. "Well, I mean, you don't have to go down on me. We can just, like... cuddle or something."  
  
Okay, so not what Spencer had in mind. Smiling, he slides back up until he's face-to-face with Brendon, kissing him slow and dirty, thrusting his tongue into Brendon's mouth until it's unmistakable what he's thinking. When Spencer pulls back, Brendon's face is flushed, his breathing hard. "Actually, I was thinking we could just skip to the fucking." Brendon grins, and nods in agreement.  
  
They shed their clothes pretty quickly, and Spencer runs his hand along the side of the mattress until he finds the small bottle he keeps there. Brendon snorts a laugh, flinching when Spencer gives him a light smack. "Hey, man, don't judge. It gets lonely on the road."  
  
Brendon grins wider, spreading his thighs. "Well, not anymore." It's cheesy, like really cheesy, but it makes Spencer's spine tingle just the same, and he doesn't waste anymore time getting the lube open and coated over his fingers. He knows the basic mechanics of this, and it's not that different from fucking a girl, except for how it's about a million times hotter. Brendon's head tips back, exposing his throat, as Spencer slowly, carefully presses two fingers into him. He looks gorgeous, skin sweaty and pale, and Spencer just can't help himself. Moving his fingers slowly, but purposefully, in and out of Brendon's body, Spencer leans forward, nipping at Brendon's neck and jaw until he's breathing into his ear. "Want this," he says softly, "want _you_. Since the first time I saw you, Brendon, fuck, you look so good."  
  
The words seem to flow through Brendon's whole body, making him shudder. His hips jerk up every time Spencer presses in just right, and Brendon whimpers low, in the back of his throat. "Spence,  _Spence_."  
  
Hands come up from where they were clutching at the mattress, tangling in Spencer's hair to angle his mouth over Brendon's. They kiss, long and slow and lazy, but edged with desperation. Brendon's hips start fucking down onto his fingers, and the kisses turn rough, biting, because that's definitely the hottest thing Spencer's ever felt. Finally, lips raw and sore from being connected so long, Brendon pulls back and stares right into Spencer's eyes when he says, "Spencer, I need you inside me."  
  
It takes only a few seconds for Spencer to dig around in his jeans for his wallet, and to produce a condom. He rips open the bag with his teeth, eyes still locked with Brendon's, making the smaller man squirm in anticipation. He smiles to himself, and before Spencer can ask what's so fucking funny, muses, "I was right, your eyes are seriously dark right now."  
  
Spencer can't help his laugh, rolling the condom on and slicking himself up quickly. He moves over Brendon again, using both hands to gently lift his hips up and spread his knees apart, up toward his chest. "I think I recall something about... fucking you until you can't see straight?" His cock nudges up against Brendon's entrance, making him draw in a gasp. Despite his reaction, Brendon smirks up at Spencer, challenging.  
  
"Pretty sure that went along with being pushed up against a wall." There's a glint in his eyes like fire, and Spencer, well, how can he say no to that?  
  
Before either of them really register what's happening, Spencer's out of the bunk, pulling Brendon with him. The smaller man doesn't even have time to steady himself when Spencer turns him around to face him, sliding hands down to grab his ass, like he did earlier in the kitchen. Brendon smiles curiously, then lets out a sharp yelp when Spencer hauls him up, pressing him up against the small strip of wall in between bunks, pinning him in place with his torso and his palms. Brendon's smile falters when he realizes what's going on, expression going serious and heated. Spencer doesn't say anything, just locks eyes as he maneuvers his cock and slowly, agonizingly so, pulls Brendon down onto it.  
  
With a loud thunk, Brendon's head connects with the wall. He lets his weight go a little, to slide down farther, until Spencer is balls deep and it feels so. Fucking.  _Incredible_. Brendon lets out a wanton cry, not even caring that he sounds like a total slut. Spencer kind of makes him feel that way, but not used or humiliated, just... hot and sexy and unabashed. And anyway, Spencer's thrusting up into him hard, nailing that spot every single time, and he just doesn't have the attention span to focus on any type of crisis of character. So long as Spencer keeps fucking him like that, just so good and so hard and  _ugh_ , he doesn't have a care in the world.  
  
It doesn't take long before Spencer's hips are losing their rhythm, snapping desperately, aching for release. Brendon's helping now, pushing his own hips deliberately, moaning every time, sometimes Spencer's name, sometimes just random sounds and expletives. His voice goes high and breathy when he wraps a hand around his cock, stroking furiously. With a shout, Brendon comes all over his fist and Spencer's stomach, and the clenching of his body around Spencer brings him over the edge, too, gasping Brendon's name.  
  
They stay pressed together in the afterglow, breathing heavily and petting at each other. Spencer pulls back a little, hitching Brendon up to keep a good hold on him, still inside him, and brings one hand up to push some of his sweaty hair off his forehead. Brendon smiles at him, soft and almost innocent, which is fucking weird. But also gorgeous. Spencer can feel himself falling hard for this kid, and it's startling. He hadn't realized that this was more than just lust and unresolved tension. But Brendon's looking back at him like he's thinking the exact same thing.  
  
"Spence?" he says tentatively, barely above a whisper.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Brendon just leans in and kisses him once, chaste. When he pulls back again, the look on his face is more a question than his words. "Is this... okay?"  
  
With a flourish, the curtain separating the bunks from the front of the bus snaps open, and there's Jon, with his camera, catching a picture of them. He's gaping when he lowers the camera, like he hadn't expected their position to be  _quite_  so compromising, and then he turns and bolts away again, laughing. Spencer hears Ryan going, "What? What the fuck, dude, what is it?"  
  
Brendon stares at the curtain, a look of abject horror on his face. He winces when they hear Ryan's shocked, gasping laughter, the thump of him dropping to the floor dramatically, holding his sides, no doubt. Jon's laughing, too, and then he shouts back, "I wonder how much I can get from  _Rolling Stone_  for this!" Ryan just cackles even louder. Brendon's face burns red, and Spencer's sure his own looks similar.  
  
"Fuck you, Walker! See if your camera lasts the night!" Spencer retorts, then turns back to Brendon. Feeling suddenly protective, Spencer pulls the smaller man close, carefully pulling out, and carries him back to his bunk, tucking him in safely before crawling in himself. He tugs the curtain in place, curling around Brendon's lean frame with his own, larger one.  
  
Sighing happily, Brendon burrows into Spencer's chest. "So... you didn't answer my question."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Brendon hesitates, then looks up at Spencer, biting his lip. "Is this okay? Are we... what are we?"  
  
It takes a moment for Spencer to reply, if only because he's not entirely certain himself. He knows what he wants, but he's not sure if that's what Brendon wants. Then again, he supposes, there's only one way to find out. "Well, if you want, I mean... I'd like for us to be, um, together? Or at least, dating."  
  
The resulting smile is nearly blinding. "Yes, Spencer Smith," Brendon says, kissing him enthusiastically. "Yes, I would like us to be together very much."  
  
Spencer laughs. "Good." He kisses Brendon back, for a moment, then pulls away. "Now, I think I really do owe you something."  
  
  
[fin.]


End file.
